In the Coin Laundry
by Falling's not the problem
Summary: Molly leaned as far forward as she could, movement causing the water around her to ripple. She pressed her nose against the cool glass of the washing machine door in order to look at him more closely. He was a strange creature, she concluded, stranger than her perhaps. (Based on the song's music video. Silly little idea I came up with.)


**In the Coin Laundry**

_Do you have a dollar?__  
><em>_Do you have a dollar for me?__  
><em>_Maybe just an hour or two__  
><em>_And a pot of tea__  
><em>_Have you got a memory__  
><em>_Have you got a memory for me?__  
><em>_Tell me about the days when__  
><em>_You were seventeen _

_Coin Laundry- Lisa Mitchell_

He was a strange creature, she concluded, stranger than her perhaps.

He was tall, with limbs that resembled spaghetti (she was shocked he was even able to lift his laundry basket) and a head of wild, black curls. His skin was extremely pale, but it was his face that caught her attention. High cheekbones, cupids bow lips and beautiful greenish blue eyes all mixed together to make an attractive man. He wore a burgundy dress skirt tucked into black slacks and a suit jacket. A large black coat hung over the top of it all, making him look taller than he probably was. He seemed rather out of place, in this brightly coloured, deserted laundrette on a rainy day.

The first thing he did was place his basket down on the bench in the centre of the room, strip himself of his coat and jacket, and fold up his shirt sleeves to the elbow (all of which he performed with a great huff. He was obviously not very enthusiastic about being here).

There was something about him. Over the years here she had been able to learn how to read people, read their emotions. She usually found it quite easy, but not as much with this man. He looked bored, as most people that came to this old coin laundry did, but she saw something in his eye. It was a spark, hidden beneath the boredom, but it was there none the less. Intelligence, much stronger than any she had ever seen in any other's eyes. But also coldness, almost as strong but with great faults.

Molly leaned as far forward as she could, movement causing the water around her to ripple. She pressed her nose against the cool glass (well, it was actually plastic, but she liked to think it was glass) of the washing machine door in order to look at him more closely.

She wanted to leave the sanctuary of _her _washing machine, the one she had taken so much time in decorating with traditional silver birdcages (which once hung around the store in attempt to make the store seem less depressing. It was a failed attempt, really, for they had looked so out of place with the bright orange walls), buttons tied to the cages (which she had taken from the clothes of laundr-o-mat clients) and the walls of the machine decorated with fabrics (which she had, once again, swiped from clients. She stole a lot, she now noticed. Was she a kleptomaniac? She didn't think so, but then again kleptomania did not sound like something someone would admit to having). She was constantly replacing the 'Out Of Order' sign on the front of the machine, so that no one would ransack her little 'home' with their dirty clothes.

As she leaned against the door, watching as the strange man pile his clothes in a washing machine on the opposite side of the small establishment, she saw it amongst the dark shades of his shirts and trousers. Purple. A flash of dark purple. There was a shock that ran through her, causing her to sit bolt upright.

She needed that shirt.

She had enough purple fabric, she knew. It was the only colour, besides the cherry printed cardigan above the door (it looked so cheerful), of fabric that lined her machine walls. She had no use for anymore purple clothes, but this purple was just too brilliant to leave behind. Perhaps she could wear it? Yes, yes. It was not long enough to wear as a dress, but she could wear it over her white, lacy frock until she found something more suitable.

She would wait until he leaved, she decided. Most people left when their laundry was being washed, even just for a moment to find something to bring back to entertain themselves with while waiting for their clothing to finish washing. _Silly people _Molly thought with a little giggle _Don't they know that their clothes could get stolen?_ (She found it so funny because she was the only person she knew of to steal things at this launderette.)

The washing machine across the room was now whirling, but the man did not leave. Instead, he walked to the bench to the centre of the room and sat down next to his coats, back turned to Molly. She frowned. This man was smarter than most, that or the rain now falling heavily outside was keeping him inside. She found this rather annoying on account she wanted his shirt.

She watched in confusion as the man lifted his hands and steepled them under his chin, before proceeding to stare at the wall, from what she could tell. She waited, hoping that the man would move, but he didn't. She gradually became more and more annoyed as he continued to stare at the wall. She could not open the washing machine door and get his shirt, for she would be in his line of sight if she went to his washing machine.

Molly sighed, heartbroken a ridiculous amount for a simple shirt (but it was a _purple _shirt, so to her it was reasonable). She stared at the strange man a moment longer before shifting back, moving so she could lie down and still see him. The water crept up half her face, making her want to giggle at the strange but wonderful feeling it made on her nose, but she kept her mouth shut so she would not swallow any water. To her, nothing quite felt like the surface of still water on one's face.

She grew tired of the feeling when she could no longer hold her breath. She propped her head up on one of her arms, using her other hand to play with the water, taking a moment to look at the little cheaply knick-knack rings that she had collected over the years here (most pulled from pockets of pants being washed).

She had been here so long. So, painfully long. She did not even remember how she came to be stuck in a coin laundry. It had been too many days, too many years. She could not remember how she got here, but the reflection in the glass never aged. She was Molly, she was a woman, and she had brown hair. That was all she could really remember. Everything else was lost to her, except for her collection of fabrics and buttons.

She was shocked when she saw the man the move, reaching to his large coat to retrieve something. Molly jumped up, causing the water around her to splash as she pressed herself back up to the 'glass' of her washing machine door. He was getting a book out of one of his large coat pockets, that much she could see (and was that a detailed illustration of a bee on the front?). He flipped the book open, and started to read. She waited a moment, until she was sure he was distracted, before slowly opening the door to her washing machine.

She knew from experience that the sound of another washing machine would mask the sound of her door opening, and the rain pelting on the outside glass windows would aid the disguise. She carefully placed her legs on the bench in front of her washing machine. Molly waited a moment for the water from her dress to drain a bit before carefully easing herself out of her little water-logged home.

The first item of his she looked at was his coat. There was rarely someone who interested her so much as to try and find out their name, but this man's name she certainly needed to know. She rotated her head this way and that, trying to find his name without moving the coats (they were right next to the man, after all). She saw something after a moment, poking out from the pocket of his suit jacket. She reached towards the little piece of plastic and carefully extracted it. The man didn't seem to notice.

She carefully moved back, well out of the man's line of sight before looking down at the little plastic rectangle with the man's picture in the corner.

_Sherlock Holmes._

The name struck something in Molly. It sounded so familiar, his second name. Molly envied those who had second names, for hers was long forgotten in the years at the coin laundry. But this man, this _Sherlock_, sparked something within her. His last name made her own, lost one familiar somehow. It was the letters, she decided, but not all of them. She looked at his name, trying to figure which ones sparked familiarity and which ones did not. It took her a moment, but she detected which ones were familiar. _H, O, E_, in the exact same places. The other letters were as foreign to her last name as a Z was to her first.

_Molly Hoe. _Molly shook her head. No, that wasn't it. Phooey. She walked forward and carefully placed the plastic card back.

Molly was surprised that this _Sherlock _man had yet to notice anything. Sure, she had been careful, but he should have noticed something strange by now. Why did he not? Molly moved in front of him.

She could not see the title of the book from the angle he was holding it, but currently she did not care about his reading material. She was interested the man- this _Sherlock Holmes_. She bent down from the hips then titled her chin up, so that she could see up into his reading eyes.

He was completely focused on his book (which she knew not what it was about), face relaxed but eyes revealing the whirring within his head. He was not reading absently, Molly concluded, He was absorbing this information hungrily.

She wanted to learn more about him, but her position in living did not allow her to do so by usual means of conversation. She world just have to try and figure it out.

She could smell something. It was coming from him, that much she could tell, but she knew, like his name, that the smell was familiar. She moved to the side of him, away from his book and his eyes, and more to his hair and ear. The smell was familiar, but she could not quite get enough to identify it.

She leaned forward more and sniffed. There were other smells on him, that of nicotine was strong, just like the people that smoked in the coin-laundry (Molly didn't like those people, they stunk the place out), but the smell she wanted was potent and leafy. Familiar yet slightly different from how she remembered it. It was right there, at the very front of her mind, but the word was not quite forming. She needed more. She leaned in, right up close to his pale neck, and breathed in. Her jumbled thoughts formed a word.

_Tea_.

_Sherlock_'s head suddenly, swiftly turned to look at her with wide and surprised eyes. Molly gave a loud gasp, dangerously close to a scream, and scrambled backwards. She tripped over her own feet, landing hard on her back in the centre of the floor.

She lay there, staring at Sherlock with wide eyes. It had been so long since she had been acknowledged. But then again, was she being acknowledged? She had had many people look in her direction out of suspicion, but they always, quite literally, looked right through her.

Sherlock wasn't looking at her though. He was looking at the space she had been, the space by his neck. She watched, relaxing as she did so, as his eyebrows furrowed. He turned his head a bit, but when he saw nothing he turned back to his book. But, he was distracted by something else.

His book was moved to the side so that he could properly look at the ground; properly look at the little footprints made of water on the floor around him. When had they gotten there? He looked around, attempting to see who had placed them there. But there was no one else in here, and especially no one with wet bare feet. He continued to look around when something seemed to catch his eye about a certain space of floor. Sherlock himself could not see what was different about this space of checker-tiled floor than any other, nor could he deduce anything wrong with it, but something was _off_. In the end, he simply continued to read.

Molly's heart picked up when Sherlock stared at her on the ground with his furrowed eyebrows, but she was disappointed when he simply picked up his book again. She sighed. Of course he had not seen her.

Molly knew that she could not get away with taking his lovely purple shirt, but she wanted, _needed _something from him. She needed to remember him, needed to remember what he had shown her: part of her name. She needed to remember that, she could not forget it again.

She would wait. After all this time stuck in a run-down, awfully coloured (seriously, orange painted walls with blue cased washing machines) coin laundry. She was quite used to waiting for things to happen.

Molly went over to Sherlock's washing machine, and heaved herself up (this was succeeded with plenty of ungraceful air-kicking) onto the machine right beside it. She wanted to rest her feet, and decided that sitting on the bench near the room's only other occupant would not be the wisest of ideas.

She would wait.

It seemed like an eternity for the washing machine beside her to finally stop banging and whirring.

Molly, who was sure she was just about to drift off to sleep, suddenly perked up. Finally.

Sherlock grumbled on the bench, tossing his book onto his bundle of coats beside him. No-one had joined him in the laundrette, and the rain outside was hitting the window impossibly harder than before. Sherlock currently looked more bored than Molly felt, but Molly just chalked it up to the fact she was used to being bored.

Sherlock stood as gracefully as a man with too-long limbs could, and just about dragged his basket over to his machine.

Molly prepared herself, grasping the dainty silver scissors from inside her hip pocket (after all, who knows when scissors are going to come in handy) and wiggling slightly. She was excited, but didn't know why. She had stolen many buttons before his, yet this theft was making her giddy.

The door was thrown open by the man in an annoyed huff. He placed his hand near Molly to support himself as he bent to scoop his laundry into his basket. For a moment, Molly was ecstatic, thinking this would be an easy theft of a button from his sleeve cuff. But that feeling of joy left as easy as it had come when she realised his sleeves were rolled to his elbow, button lost deep within the rolls of fabric.

Molly felt grief then, as she thought of the beautiful burgundy button. She had many buttons in her collection that she had stolen over the years, all tied to her bird cages with loose threads or dotted over her fabric walls. But this button would have actually meant something, the memory of her name she almost remembered and the one she remembered fully. She would place the button above her door, so that she would never forget her name: _Molly_.

She watched sadly at the river of dark colours and whites stream into his waiting basket. Her eyes saw the beautiful purple shirt again for just one moment, the need to have it consuming her again before the shirt was buried under more of his clothes. She looked up to him again. He was so beautiful, and she could tell he was clever. She liked clever people.

She saw the one button left undone by his collar. Hope spurred through her once more, and this time she was not let this opportunity go. He would see it, she knew, but at the current time she was beyond caring, she found.

She jumped down from her position on the washing machine and quickly scurried to the other side of Sherlock. She gently grabbed his collar, and before he could fully notice she snipped off the button. She looked down at it a moment, before shoving her little scissors back in her pocket and scurrying back to her washing machine.

Sherlock watched in shock as his button floated across the laundr-o-mat and into an ugly blue, industrial sized washing machine. He stood frozen a moment, before blinking hard and tilting his head. He could see nothing inside the machine, but then again, he was on the other side of the room. With that though, he realised what he must do.

Sherlock stalked his way across the room, before bowing his head and sticking it inside the open door of the machine with the 'Out of Order' sign hanging on the front.

Nothing. It was just the average interior of a washing machine. Nothing to prove otherwise, except for the pool of water at the bottom. Then again, no sign of his button either. This was the right machine, wasn't it? It had been real, right? His mind had never made up things before, so why should it start now, in a laundrette of all places. He was about to take his head out when everything changed.

The metal walls were covered in fabric in all shades of purple, with buttons scattered thickly atop of the materials. Little metal and white bird cages hung from the metal above, more buttons tired to the wire of the delicate structures. And right in front of him, hovering just a few centimetres away from him, was a face.

Sherlock jumped up, bumping his head on the metal top of the washing machine door. He was vaguely aware that the walls of the device were no longer covered in fabric and buttons, and there was no longer another person within the machine, but he was too busy jumping backwards. He stumbled backwards all the way back to the bench in the centre of the room, almost tripping over it. He fell back onto it, and only just managed to stop himself from falling off.

He stopped panicking, forcing himself to use his mind again. Panicking would get him nowhere. He had frozen in an awkward position, legs thrown about and eyes wide. He was staring at the open washing machine, making sure there was nothing there. He carefully straightened and bought his legs down. Still nothing there. Then he blinked.

This time he did not jump as he saw the purple fabrics and buttons inside, nor at the woman half way out of the machine.

She looked like a mouse, the way one hand was resting on the door's threshold to hold her up, the other arm tucked up near her chest and head tilted to the side. She had a small, elfish face, with a tiny nose, small mouth and large brown eyes that were filled with clear curiosity. Her light brown hair fell around her shoulders, tips and strands around her face were soaking wet and sticking to her skin and dress. The dress was white and old, washed to the point where it was grey, with a lace collar. The skirt of the little dress was also soaked, clinging to her skin. She was probably very interesting, this woman in the industrial washing machine, but Sherlock could not currently tell.

He couldn't deduce a single damn thing about her.

"Who are you?!" a boring question, really, but one he was likely to get an answer for (he was shocked by the loudness of his own voice, actually). She did not answer, just tilted her head slightly further and furrowing her eyebrows. Then Sherlock blinked, and she was gone again, along with the fabrics within her washing machine.

He saw them appearing on the ground, however, her footprints made of water. He blinked, wondering if the water would disappear or the woman reappear. But it did not work this time, little footprints still coming closer. He tried blinking again, but she was still just foot prints.

It was when they stopped in front of him that she appeared again. He blinked at the footprints, and then he was staring at her feet. He looked at those small, white feet a moment before slowly looking up, past her skirt hem and collar, right to her face.

She was shimmering, flickering like the image on a broken TV. For a moment she was gone, but she flickered back again so that Sherlock could see her tilted hear and wide, expressive eyes.

She spoke, voice airy and slightly high from lack of use, but defiantly feminine.

"Molly. I'm Molly."


End file.
